To Hell and Back
by Caleigho Meer
Summary: Rorschach imprisoned.
1. Chapter 1

He had fallen, he remembered that much. Blood on his hands, the flop of Moloch's head with the pretty hole through the forehead, the sudden explosion of lights and fire as the police bellowed below from the megaphone and he spun in that circle of light in shock. He was startled, breathed a hiss of rage, and then exploded, almost frenzied, almost panicking.....

Almost.

"No, no, no, no! Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid," the words flew out as an invocation as his groping hands slid over the counter, and the possibilities of escape burned through his head. He was caged and growling as he felt the cold metal canister against his palm, snatched with a tilt of his head.

He remembered the acrid smell of the gas from the stove, the small inferno propelled from his palm, the flame of hell held in his hands as the door crashed under the thump of boots and men, how they all spilled to the floor, all around him.

They had shouted, recoiled, expecting the madness of a cornered animal, but not the fire. He smelled the tinge of burning skin, the smouldering ash, the inferno around him as he leapt high and fell harder. Bones ground into the concrete, he lay, splayed by the blinding pain and the numb torpor he choked back with a snarl. Through his smeared vision, he saw the wall of uniforms crashing over him like an ocean wave.  
He vaulted out of the heap of humans like a deer, only to be snatched mid-leap and thrown down to the concrete again. He belted, kicked, pivoted and swung harder. He heard the snap of bones, the grunts of pain, the curses, a sizable number crumbling. The shouting grew to a roar, the blows fell harder as he grew more numb and furious, the world blurred when the first club collided with his skull.

No, no, no.... The words were spat out as they swarmed over him, kicking, punching, snarling, a mass and net of arms and clubs and brutality sweeping him down until he was flush with the concrete. He felt a knee shoving his jaw to the cold pavement, felt so many hands on his quaking back. He roared, and tried to rise, but he was swept under the malestrom of feet, and fists. A boot heel across his backbone, another to his face, grinding his cheek into the pavement like an unwanted bug. Blood dribbled from his lips, he felt the cheekbone cracking under the unrelenting pressure on his skull, his breathing was growing ragged, his voice scraped out and raw from the shouting and the snarls.....

He heard his name spat, the mocking laughter, and felt the splintering ache of wood as the billy club slammed into the back of his skull. He lingered there, in the dizzying chaos, woozy, and furious and fighting the grunt of pain that finally burbled out from his clenched jaws. He fought the encroaching blackness with a hiss, but finally collapsed into a limp pile of twisted trench coat and blood.

The news that they had brought the legendary Rorschach down was met with glee as they chained his limp wrists in handcuffs and dragged him through the grimed street the short distance to the waiting squad car. He was tossed, bleeding and unconscience into the back, officers riding flank with guns drawn.  
It was a short ride to the max, peppered by their chortles and smug congradulations as they waxed poetic about the various means of mutilation and torture that prison shanks and solitary could deliver. The words slurred into his unwilling ears.

He heard his death being casually discussed, passed off as a sentence, and a shrug. He said nothing, not particularly caring all that much himself. Existance was a casual thing, anyway. He always knew his would be miserable and short....

Thoughts drifted into obscurity, words sounded around him, he grunted at a stray blow, and winced at a touch. The brakes of the squad car squealed loud and long before the car groaned to a halt. He was pitched forward, and flopped downward, still too dazed to do much else but grunt.

Hands on his wrists, dragging his dangling feet over the curb, lifting him into a stumbling lurch as he nearly fell face first that was halted by a cruel grip to his throat. Somebody struck him in the temple, scarlet gore poured from his busted eyelid to his lip in an irritating trickle.

"Walk, damn it!" The cop barked the order as he thudded the prisoner, and stood him on his dangling legs again. He grit his teeth, forced his dragging feet into a fumbling pace. His head was bowed, his body shuddering, and he was only upright because of those fists clenched over his nearly dislocated shoulders. It hurt, it all hurt. He swallowed it all down with an indifferent sneer, and a languid blink.  
It was all he could do, now. His eyes narrowed, unseen by the mask. He was grateful that they had left him relatively untouched, aside from the blows and the beatings. That pain was familiar, the bruises would heal.  
His gut lurched when they jerked him to a stop in front of the holding cell, while the guard smirked at him,  
unlocked the iron door with a sharp clang. He could not stop the flinch when he heard the loud bellow for reinforcements, nor stop the smug satisfaction that he was so feared....

They lifted him high, and flung him into the holding cell like unwanted trash, allowing his head to crack against the concrete. Orderlies donned smiles and gloves. He could only blink and watch as they threw him down, twisted his arms open, ripped the trench coat away, yanked his arms free of the material. He sucked back the cry with a hiss as they smirked down at him, and peeled away the grimed shirt, nearly choking him when they tore the high collar away from his neck. He could not stop the shiver from the sudden cold, since his battered torso was now only clad in the filthy tank top. The nurse warily leaned in to survey the damage from the beating, almost timidly pulling up the edge of his shirt to view his side and stomach. His breath quickened when the material was slid away from his stomach, and nearly to his shoulder. He heard a low, feral whistle of astonishment, and would have slugged them for their violating vew of his scars...if he could. The nurse's palm was warm against his ribs as she clucked when she felt the convex angle of his rib, and the spasm that gripped his back as he tried to inch away. The grip on him tightened until he was nearly numb from the lack of circulation and the pain.

Dully, he heard the nurse whispering and saw her shake her head down at him, frowning, her fluttering hands working fretfully as she binded up the broken ribs. His eyes seared into hers as she dabbed the disinfectant over a few of the bigger cuts over his busted lip. His breath quickened involuntarily when he heard one of the guards sneer how fun it might be to get the ugly little bastard into a prison uniform. His eyes flickered to hers, and she shivered. She quickly checked the binding to his ribs, panting, and rose, scooting back. The clack of her heels sounded loud against the floor.

The violation of the glaring floursecent bulbs seared his retinas, as he felt invasive fingers curling over his quaking throat and jaw, linger as he heard the dribble of chuckles. He was panting, the cloth over his mouth burbling upward and growing more erratic with his terse breath. So many hands palming his forehead to the cold concrete, so many filthy hands clawing at him, as if he were nothing more than a carcass in the gutter for the vultures to consume. The flinch was bone-deep when he felt at least three sets of nails hook themselves underneith the hem of his mask, and yank.

It was only the removal of cloth, but it felt like they were peeling away his flesh. He could not stop the wince of shock when he felt the concrete slammed against his cheek. the sudden blow to his busted ribs made him clamp his mouth shut with a grunt. The world rippled back into view, their chuckles roaring into his ears as the ring of fat faces merged into one hideous whine of violating touch. He grimaced when a mocking hand pressed his head back to the floor, and forced his chin upward into a tilt. He snarled, blinked, tried to arch his back and fling them off.

Laughter dribbled down and drowned him. He was stripped of everything and staring upward as one of them waved the mask over his naked face, the sick cackles and the touching writhing all over him. His limbs were slammed down and bent and broken under the weight of boots and bodies. His brain curdled against his skull when another fist slammed into his temple, and he tasted blood, hot and salted and choking from his busted lip.

It took nearly six of them to keep him down long enough for the fretting little nurse to give the shot of sedative. Even after three syringes full, he still snarled and bucked like a harpooned fish, though his thrashing wilted to a dull, defiant twitch. He heard the nurse coo his name, attempt to soothe away some of his rage with a caressing hand through the unkempt thatch of bright could not stop the wince, as she withdrew her hand as if burned. Distainfully, she wiped the sweat from her palm on her skirt, and they all gawked at him as he wilted from the sedatives, his muscles growing slack and his thoughts going fuzzy. The last sight he had was the mask flapping over his face like a banner. He tensed in rage, and then went completely limp as he was finally engulfed by the dark.

The guards chuckled and congradulated themselves, grunted and nursed grudges, as the prisoner lay limp and bleeding, his face covered with spit and sweat, and gore. None of them dare relinguish their grips on his body until they were sure he was completely defenseless. His state of consciousness was gleefully confirmed by a brutal kick to the ribs that was only met with a strangled groan, and the crack of bone.

"Well, boys, let's get the princess into her dressing gown, eh? While he's out?" The suggestion was agreed to by the chorus of cackles and thud of billy clubs on his spine.

Dully, he heard the nurse whispering and saw her shake her head down at him, frowning, her fluttering hands working fretfully as she binded up the broken ribs. His eyes seared into hers as she dabbed the disinfectant over a few of the bigger cuts over his busted lip. His breath quickened involuntarily when he heard one of the guards sneer how fun it might be to get the ugly little bastard into a prison uniform. His eyes flickered to hers, and she shivered. She quickly checked the binding to his ribs, panting, and rose, scooting back. The clack of her heels sounded loud against the floor. She looked down at the prisoner, and swallowed. "I would just leave him here and lock the doors, gentlemen." Her voice was soft as she shook her head. "I don't think it's worth the risk."

She heard the disperaging snort of dismissal behind her as one of the guards tapped his club against the prisoner's temple. "What's the matter, doll, you don't think we can cage the runt? Ya afraid of him?"

Her lips formed a grim little line as she swept a hand wide, encompassing the room, the seven guards, the orderlies, their collection of bruises and busted bones. She drew herself up, with a scowl, her voice shrill in the room of men. "It took over six of you to hold him down, and that was with three shots. Yes, gentlemen, I'm very much afraid of him. As you should be."

She turned on her heels in a huff and left. 


	2. Unmasked

He relished every flinch, every wide-eyed back-peddling of bloated authority and pretense. The fear tasted familiar, the loathing felt like home. It was all he knew now. The thought brought a bitter ache to his throat as he sat back on the shelf chained to the wall that served as his bed. The concrete was cold, the bars making their splintered shadows in grotesque patterns of light on the floor. the cell, the cage, the pretenses....it mattered little now. He heard the mocking shrieks of the other inmates, all blathering largely empty promises about his inpending demise, various pieces of his body described in sickening inuendos, and then...the threats. He heard his name cursed, snarled out like mad dogs fighting for it. He allowed a vicious smirk when he remembered the dog's head and that befuddled look of the beast's owner before he hurled the carcass through the glass. All else was a blur after that. He remembered that he had no thoughts at all..just impressions, and snatches of moments...open flame, shrieks of anguish, the stench of burning flesh, how just and right it seemed to leave that thing chained to the stove, the dying wails as flesh was imoluated in a perverse offering that could never bring about healing.

Bodies, he mused. There were two human ones that night, one of an inocent child butchered and broken and thrown, literally to the dogs, and the other, burnt to a smouldering pile of charred bone, if only for his own unsated sense of justice. Vengence was a piss-poor substitute for absolution. He looked down at his hands, ran thumb over marred palms, grimaced at how small they were, frowned at the vague curling fringe of red hair that denoted each knuckle. Strange how such small hands could be soaked with so much blood. He put a hand over his guant cheek, let it linger to the hollowed onclave of his jaw, pushed the mottled bruise and savored the ache. Pain was another steady anchor in this turmoiled sea of thoughts. He felt naked without the mask, pitiful, and vulnerable. It was almost sad to look back at his- Walter's face- and not know who he was. His mother had looked at his face with loathing...spat his name in a drunken rage and slapped his cheek, and called him bastard, hissed at him that she didn't need to be reminded of another mistake.

A mistake. Hated and unwanted, unplanned and depraved...he ran a hand through his greased hair, felt the oily strands slick beneith his abscent fingers, curled a lip at the flame-bright color. It was ironic how somebody so small, ugly, and ignored could have such garish hair. Perhaps his father's hair was red. He shrugged off the thought wearily. He would never know, and it didn't matter now. He did not flinch at the loud clang of something striking the bars of his prison cell, only troubled himself to raise his eyes in rigid waiting. The guards were lining up by his cage, guns drawn, terror stinking up the few feet that seperated them. He clenched his fists, but stood up, docily, waiting for them to enter and take him to his appointment with the court psychiatrist. He allowed them to chain his wrists, obediently shuffled out with the six, and did not pay any heed to the dribbling rain of insults and fury that was hurled down from the cells as he indifferently lurched on his way.

It was the sneer, the glint of teeth bared back from a face that looked as if it had been hacked from granite. The high cheekbones, and lips drawn back into the jaws, those eyes that scathed over the concrete and the doctor's polished shoes before coming to rest warily on the court-appointed pyschiatrist. The doctor could not help the audible gulp when those eyes flickered with some sort emotion that he could not name as Walter kovacs shuffled forward in shackles, flanked by the guard dogs. They had their billy clubs drawn and ready.  
"Mr. Walter Kovacs?" The question was almost timid as the prisoner only grunted. Apparently, the answer was not enough, as one of the guards abruptly drew back his club and brought it down full force over the prisoner's bowed spine. The doctor did not even have time to cry out before the prisoner shrugged off their grips with his whip-like limbs and belted the guard. The doctor shuddered when he heard bones crack, the shrill cry of pain as the guard fell back with a palm covered with blood to his face. The prisoner pivoted to face them, his shoulders heaving, and silent...waiting.

The doctor swallowed again, and ventured, "Mr. Walter Kovacs?" The prisoner's face jerked towards him, his eyes narrowing, and his lip digging deeper into his teeth. "Umm....Why don't you sit down?"

The prisoner gave the chair a scathing glance, and unwillingly slid into it. The doctor glanced uncertainly at the guards, the one who had been punched was still nursing his nose and glaring at the prisoner. He swallowed hard again as the prisoner's eyes darted from the mass of uniforms behind him back to the uneasy doctor for a long moment. "Sitting. What now?" The growl was laden with disgust and weariness. The doctor swallowed again, forced a paternal smile.

"If you don't mind, I'd like to ask you a few questions." The prisoner's only response was another indifferent grunt. The doctor slid his hands back to the table and brought forth a stack of pristine white cards that he carefully arranged."I'm going to hold up a card, and you tell me what you see, alright?" He gave the prisoner a benign smile and inwardly cringed. The prisoner gave him a curt nod, but never lost that rigid, seething glare.

"Alright then...we'll..begin." The doctor held up an inkblot, and watched as the prisoner only stared at it, indifferently, before his cheeks curved in distain.

"Clouds." The word was spat unexpectedly, and the doctor forced another smile. "Very good, Walter. And now?"

The prisoner scowled. "I don't like you." His lip curled when the flustered doctor mopped his forehead with a shaking hand, and gave him a crumbling grin. "And may I ask why you don't like me, Walter?"

"You called me Walter. and you're fat." The doctor grunted as he looked down at his generous belly, and shifted with a shrug.

"Well, Mr. Kovacs, some things just can't be helped. why do you not want to be called Walter?" The prisoner grunted in answer, and was slient again. The name fell on him, from the lips of a whore, thrown at him like blood, soaked in his skin like some unclean disease....the name was spat at him from his mother, sickening, filthy....

his thoughts rattled in his head as he curtly answered, "Don't like it. Not me." The doctor quirked an eyebrow at that, studied his face and was more alarmed than annoyed to see that the prisoner needed no mask to hide his innerworkings. The doctor trembled at the thought that there may not be anything human about his 'patient.'

The doctor held up another card, as the prisoner continued to tick off benign lies, one after the other. He answered, "a pretty butterfly' but hid the flinch of the image of the mutilated corpse that ripped through his soul.

He answered, "flowers,'' but saw his mother splayed out in the bed, her lover beating her and breaking her, and that animalistic howl in the dark made him answered, "a puppy,' but saw the glitter of bones of that little girl's ravaged remains as her killer sat, fat and sated and bloated in the chair, idly flipping through the channels and throwing one of his beloved dogs a treat.

Onward, and silent, the rise of white cards and smeared colors and his cold, obligated answers, as he studied the doctor's quaking throat and felt the billy club jab his side when he started to rise. The doctor wisely curtailed his session short, serenely stacked up the cards and placed them in his suitcase, gave the prisoner a gentle grin, and a nod.

"Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Kovacs. I think we've made some progress today.... do you have any questions?"

The prisoner only stared at him, coldly for another unbearable minute of silence, before spitting out, "Doctor, are you more interested in making me well, or what is making you sick?"


End file.
